


Blood on My Shirt, Heart in My Hand

by EvAEleanor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Guns, Hate Sex, Implied Sexual Content, Knives, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Harry Potter, POV Second Person, Restraints, Secret Auror Harry Potter, hitman draco malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvAEleanor/pseuds/EvAEleanor
Summary: It was supposed to be a quick job, important, but nothing out of the ordinary. But then there's Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	Blood on My Shirt, Heart in My Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slytherco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Ola. You're an amazing person and deserve all the good things in life. (I'm sorry this is a day late). 
> 
> [VeelaWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeelaWings), thanks for all the encouragement. You know I'd have never finished it without you. And thanks to my betas [Janieohio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieohio/pseuds/Janieohio) and [Drarrymadhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drarrymadhatter) for the fast, and last-minute beta work.
> 
> The title is a line from the song "Teeth" by 5 Seconds of Summer. This song inspired this whole scenario.

_The stairs. Of course, the idiot would use the stairs._

It’s so cliché. Almost every Muggle action movie has one of those scenes in it.

You look up and smile. It would be so easy to Apparate to him, but you can’t attract any more attention. Besides, you love the chase; the adrenaline rushing into your blood. You love the panicked voices, how they try to get away from you as you close the distance despite their efforts. It’s the foreplay to the main act.

You run after him; there are three floors between you both by now. That’s not even a challenge — it’s more like chasing after Teddy at the Burrow. A walk in the park. If you could, you’d drag it out, but Kingsley was clear that he needed the information as soon as possible. Vital information, leaving no room for mistakes. That’s why he gave this mission to you.

Yes, you’re impulsive, and yes, sometimes your plans aren’t completely thought through, but you leave no traces. Nothing. Nobody. 

He manages to shut the door as you’re taking the last steps. You hold your breath and wait. One. Two. Three. Four. Then you kick the door open for dramatic effect. Nothing gets their focus back to you like the sound of a metal door banging against the nearest object. 

“Please, I don’t know anything.” His face is unreadable in the twilight, but his voice is quivering.

You sigh, disappointed at the very predictable plea to not hurt. It’s natural, and you’d gladly cause less harm, but from years of experience, you can safely say that pain is the only real motivator for truth. There’s still the slightest bit of hope that he’ll put up a fight. He might be one of those people who reach their breaking point fairly late. 

The moment he kneels on the floor and puts his hands behind his head, you take a step forward and know this will be a quick job. Your eyes stay trained on his arms because they’re in the perfect position to reach for a weapon strapped to his back. You, yourself, have used this trick before, and the scar on your left cheek serves as a reminder of the other time when you barely made it out alive. 

It’s not like he isn’t aware of what you want, but you spell it out for him just in case. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Please, believe me.”

After hauling him to his feet — so far you didn’t have to even use a weapon — you force him to step back and back until he reaches the edge. The advantage of rooftops is that you can easily hide your traces by making it look like a suicide. Notes are so easily forged with the right spells that no copper, no forensic analysis will ever uncover the truth. And it’s not like people like him don’t have figurative bodies buried in various places.

He almost slips when his calves touch the barrier. Your hand reaches out to grab his jacket, but instead of pulling him back, you leave him hanging, giving him time to look sideways and see the busy London street far below. The deep drop that’ll await him if he doesn’t cooperate. He will take this exit no matter what, but he won’t realise that until it’s too late. 

“Tell me,” you say more forcefully this time.

He’s opening his mouth to speak when you feel a bullet right past your cheek before it enters his skull, splashing blood on your face. Your hands let go of him and you duck for cover.

There’s one building nearby with the necessary height for this shot and the skill required to execute it rules out everyone Harry has ever worked with. Everyone except—

 _Malfoy._

Reaching for your wand, you apparate straight to the rooftop of the other building. Malfoy is all that remains; no other leads. He’s been hired either by the man’s boss to monitor him or by their rival.

The second you lay eyes on him, you understand that coming here to his territory was a grave mistake. Charging right at him, you try to make up for your lack of foresight. Malfoy blocks the first spell and dodges the second, so you holster your wand while closing the distance.

Under normal circumstances, you’d have never let that happen. Blinded by fury, you miss the signs and Malfoy steps aside, leaving you punching air. You jump and dive straight into an ukemi roll when your ears pick up the sound of a knife flipping open. Space matters now. 

There’s barely a metre to the roof edge, so the only direction is forward. The easiest way to tip the scales would be to draw your gun, but before you could even do so much as point it in his direction, he’ll have thrown his knife at you. Malfoy won’t make the first move. Being in a defensive position, especially with a knife in hand, is always an advantage.

An idea pops into your head. It doesn’t actually classify as an idea, it’s more of a whim. Once again you move forward, but this time you aim for Draco’s right side, and if he wants to drive the blade into your flesh, he’s got to swing it. He does exactly that, but you duck even lower and sweep him off his feet before you take out your gun. The sole of your shoe is on his wrist, pushing down until he lets go of the knife.

“To the wall, hands on your head,” you order.

Reaching the destination, you force him to put his hands on either side of his head and spread his legs. One after the other, knives of different sizes and shapes are revealed, and then you vanish them.

“Oh yes, Potter,” he moans as you reach for the knife on this belt sheath. 

The mere sound of his voice causes the hairs on your body to stand up. So familiar. Before you’re doing something idiotic, you’ll decide to move this somewhere else, to one of your houses, your turf. You twist one hand behind his body, holster your gun and reach for your wand.

The moment after Apparating, when your head is still spinning, while your body is standing on solid ground, has always been your Achilles’ heel. Malfoy slides out of your grip and pins you face-first to the wall. Your attempt at regaining the upper hand comes to an abrupt halt when you feel a cool metal blade on your cheek, near the existing scar.

“Sorry, Potter, but it’s my turn.” 

If your head wasn’t already pushed to the wall, you’d probably bang your head against it out of sheer frustration.

_The fucking belt buckle._

You’re conscious of the location of every single knife on Malfoy’s body, but the push dagger disguised as a buckle is your blind spot, the single weapon that always slips your mind. Pointy, elegant, and deadly, just like Malfoy.

Deadly, but fucking hot. Being at his mercy never fails to do its job. You’re hyper-aware of his breath tickling the hair on the side of your head and the weight of Malfoy’s body driving you harder into the stone wall. You feel his magic wash over you when he gets rid of the blood on your face. 

With him, you’re constantly tiptoeing on the thin line between safe and fatal. 

“If you want me to stop, say the word.”

You lost.

Deep down, you’re aware that you’d never stand a chance against Malfoy, but every remaining fragment of self-preservation was gently blown off you when he whispered these words into your ear. All past promises to yourself that this was the last time have left with it. 

Rationally, you know you should put up a fight and not let him guide you to the bed like a well-trained dog. You could tell yourself it’s because of the tip of the dagger he’s by now pointing at your neck. You could go even further and pretend it’s all to get him to accidentally drop information on the case you’re working on, but you’ve played this game countless times before. Neither of you is ever willing to give anything away because one of you has blown the other’s mind… among other things. 

Red, fiery anger rises inside your body when you allow him to distract you with a kiss, only to realise that the shackles bolted into the wall are now enclosing your wrists, leaving you to stare at the headboard. It would be possible to open them if you could just reach your wand.

You’re fucked.

And if this isn’t enough reason to never repeat this ever again, Malfoy forces you to open your mouth, effectively gagging you. Whatever it is, it’s so deep in your mouth that you can’t spit it out, but not so deep to constantly trigger your gag reflex.

You hate him.

You hate him when he forces you on all fours before casting wandless preparation spells — all while clothed.

You hate him when the first finger finally pushes into you, more so when, after another finger, his tongue gets involved. Until then, you kept quiet, but once there’s a crack in the dam, the noises spill out of you.

You hate him because it feels so bloody good. So amazing that your mind wanders without permission into the treacherous, and very dangerous, 'what-if' fields. For just a few seconds, you stay there, let the images unfold, linger there. 

With every thrust into you, your hate reaches new heights. It’s a firestorm. The flames flaring higher until he stops for a second. You’d swear if you could. If you wouldn't crave it when he's not there.

By the time you spill over, the fire has burned through you, leaving sparsely glowing embers behind. 

The weight of him, the minutes he lies on top of you, it all collates into the most intimate act of the night. How the two of you take your breaths in complementing synchronicity. 

Despite being almost fully clothed, you shiver when his body moves away from you. A single flick of his wand and he looks respectable again. He casts a cleaning spell on you, takes your wand from your thigh holster and puts it into your hand. 

Then, he's gone.

 _Click._ The first shackle falls off your right hand. You reach in your mouth to take out the piece of parchment he'd stuffed into it. You move your jaw to relax the strained muscles. 

_Click._ You remove the second shackle. Your hands rub over the reddened skin. The ghost of the metal restraining you will remain for a time, like his smell, but not as long as the burn you'll feel tomorrow and possibly the day after. 

With careful movements, you unfold the spit wet piece of parchment. There are numbers, coordinates. You have a feeling about what you’ll find there. And at the bottom of the note, there’s a message, written in his unmistakable, neat curl. 

**See you around.**

_Malfoy, you bastard._

You fucking hate him.


End file.
